


Stories

by Birdhouse



Category: Leverage
Genre: Gen, POV: 2nd Person, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-21
Updated: 2012-07-21
Packaged: 2017-11-10 10:04:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/465056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Birdhouse/pseuds/Birdhouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Then the order comes and you take the shot.</p><p>And the stories help when you’ve been captured, when there are people shouting in another language that you only know a few words of (halt and Americans and which way and don’t shoot) and certainly not enough to know what they want you to tell.</p><p>You make up stories about what you’ve done to deserve this, what your family would think, right up until the gunfire and the fresh air and the hospital and--</p><p>(Written for Leverage Land on the prompt "flashback." Takes a little liberty with canon and backstory, and was written super-quickly; mayhap I'll go back and poke it some more some day.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stories

You make up stories about your targets. About what they’re doing, about what they’ve done to deserve this, usually. But until the order comes, you hold, and it gets to be so long that you start making up other stories – what his family would think. Hands tighten on a gun stock. What he’s doing in the back rooms when he’s not in your sights. What he might have been like as a younger man. They’re not the stories you’re supposed to be making up, but you’re young and far from home and you’re so bored that even the stories entertain you, give you a grasp on reality.  
  
Then the order comes and you take the shot.  
  
And the stories help when you’ve been captured, when there are people shouting in another language that you only know a few words of ( _ halt _ and  _ Americans _ and  _ which way _  and  _ don’t shoot _ ) and certainly not enough to know what they want you to tell. 

You make up stories about what you’ve done to deserve this, what your family would think, right up until the gunfire and the fresh air and the hospital and--  
  
*  
  
“This is really good, Eliot!”  
  
“Yeah, man, I mean…you oughta go on Iron Chef or somethin’ man, ‘cuz this…hey, are you alright?”  
  
You like cooking, because it’s giving instead of taking. You like cleaning up after, because you can see progress there like you can’t see progress in your heart. You don’t like loud noises, like Hardison dropping the entire stack of pots and pans into the sink at one go.  
  
_ Hands tighten on a gun stock; you crouch in the sand. _   
  
There’s a moment where you see the sniper rifle’s sights flash in your gaze – trained on clever bright blue eyes here, a flash of blond-gold hair, dark elegance or a vibrant, gangly form there –  
  
“….El?”  
  
_ You make up stories about your targets. _   
  
\- a moment where you taste the dust, feel it coating your throat, the insides of your nose; and it’s followed by the sound of iron clashing shut and the crackle of electricity against your skin –  
  
“Just…leave him alone, Hardison-”  
  
_ They’re not the stories you’re supposed to be making up, but you’re young and far from home and you’re so bored that even the stories entertain you, give you a grasp on reality- _   
  
But you blink and it’s gone and they’re all staring, except for Nate, whose just pouring you a drink.  
  
“I’m not going back,” you force yourself to say, honestly, and Nate just gives you that calm, knowing smile as Hardison and Parker look at each other in…not confusion, but some semblance of discomfort.  
  
“I know. You wouldn’t let yourself be here if you were.”  
  
And then it’s all normal again.  
  
For a little while.  
  
_ You make up stories about your targets. _   



End file.
